Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

CASH

Renter’s rights.

Three days later and I can still vividly recall Daniela spatting those words at me. I don’t know a fucking thing about renter’s rights, but I know the woman concerned about hers is fine as hell, and that is becoming a bigger problem than getting rid of my mother’s house. All I keep picturing is the way she looked in that t-shirt. Her bare legs on display, the hem skirting around her thick thighs. I wanted those thighs wrapped around my head.

Wanted a lot of things really.

For starters, I wanted to grip those wide hips of hers with my fingers as she sat on my face. I’d be sure to grip them nice and tight too—leave my prints all over her silky skin. Then, when I had my fill, I’d rip that worn cotton t-shirt over up over her head, and feast on her tits.

The woman had incredible tits.

They weren’t perky by any means, but they were nice and fucking big. Two perfect teardrops with nipples so hard they could probably cut glass, and they seemed to only get harder as she got madder.

I liked that too. Give me an angry woman any day of the week and watch me unravel her. Ain’t nothing more gratifying.

But she wasn’t just an angry woman.

From what I can tell, she’s a single mother, and that’s probably where all the anger comes from. It’s hard doing it alone. Watched my mother do it for years. Me showing up out of the blue, telling her she’s got weeks to move just threw her over the edge.

I haven’t seen her kids yet, but I’ve heard them come and go. You would think there was a herd of wild animals running down the stairs in the morning. They’re loud, and rambunctious, and from the bits and pieces I hear, they’re always making their mother late for work.

I’ve always done a good job of steering clear of single mother’s, knowing they come with a lot of fucking baggage. A good man unpacks the baggage or finds a way to carry it for her. But there ain’t too many good men out there and I’m definitely not one of them.

That’s why this morning after I heard them leave for the day, I sat down and made myself a list. There’s a lot of shit I have to do, and the quicker I do it, the quicker I’m out of here. I wasted two days worrying about renter’s rights and jerking my cock to dreams of the pretty woman in apartment 2B. The only thing I managed to do was fix the pane of glass I broke the night I arrived. The old man, Carmine, took pity on me and had a spare key made for the door so I didn’t break it again when I came back from probate court, but I’m still picking the lock to my mother’s apartment.

Well, I won’t be after today. First thing I’m crossing off the list is changing the locks—if I can get this old one off without breaking the fucking door.

I fiddle with the screwdriver some more. Everything in this building is either a hundred years old and broken, rusted, or stripped. The head of the screwdriver slips from the groove of the screw and the point jabs the palm of my hand.

“Fuck.”

“Trouble?”

The sound of Carmine’s raspy voice startles me. Instinct has me immediately reaching inside my kutte for my gun, but my hand falls to my side as my eyes land on the old man fixing his hearing aids. The man has a knack for creeping up on me. He’s done it a handful of times since I met him, and every time it happens, I curse myself. I’m usually more alert, but here I am getting had by an eighty-year-old man.

I toss the screwdriver and lean back on my haunches, scrubbing a hand over my face.

“How you doing, Carmine?”

“Better than you it seems.” He inches closer, pulling a pair of bifocals out of the front pocket of his plaid shirt. He fits them to his face, and bends over me, inspecting the doorknob. He hums thoughtfully. “Changing the locks, are you?”

“Got tired of picking the lock whenever I come and go.”

“Well, I can help you with that.”

I narrow my eyes at the man. “Thanks, but the screws are stripped. Think I’m better off just swapping out the door.” I pick up the screwdriver and place it back in the toolbox I found in the basement.

“Suit yourself,” he says, removing his glasses. “I have to head out to the bus stop to see Daniela’s boys home.”

That gives me pause. It’s hard not to take note of how close all the tenants are. At first I thought they were ganging up on me, but I’m starting to think of them as a little family unit, and it makes me wonder how my mother fit into the mix. “You do that a lot? Help Daniela out with her kids?”

I stand, crossing my arms against my chest. He meets my gaze, offering me a shrug.

“More so now that your mom passed. She used to get the boys from school dinner whenever their mom had to work both jobs.”

I don’t know why that surprises me. My mom loved kids. When me and Lisa tied the knot, she wasted no time before she started pestering us to give her a grandkid. That shit died with Lisa, though. I guess she found another way to get her fix.

“She’d cook them dinner and made sure they did their homework,” Carmine continues. “I’m not good with the homework part, but I can boil some hotdogs and crack open a can of baked beans.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “I better get moving. The little one, Dom, gets nervous if I’m late.” He starts to turn but pauses. “Hey, do you plan on going down the cellar today?”

“You mean the basement?” He nods. “It’s on the list, but I’m not sure if the container I leased is being delivered today or tomorrow.”

“Container?”

My mother was a hoarder, something I discovered the moment I entered her apartment. The basement was no better. It’s actually amazing how much shit the woman collected over the course of five years.

“Yeah, I don’t want to piss off the garbage men, and between the apartment and the basement there is a lot to unload.”

“Be careful what you throw out,” he warns. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Oh, and not everything down there is your mom’s. She allowed Daniela and Greta to store stuff down there. Might want to check with them before you start tossing things.”

Great. I should’ve expected that.

“Noted.” He gives me a tight nod, then finally turns for the door. He almost reaches it when I stop him.

“Did you need something?”

“Huh?”

“You asked if I was going down into the cellar. Did you need me to grab something for you?”

“I was just going to ask you to bring up the Christmas decorations from the back bin.” He sighs heavily. “But I’m guessing with you eager to sell the house, you don’t want us decorating outside.”

For fuck’s sake.

I don’t know what pisses me off more, the idea of this old man climbing on a ladder to decorate the front of the building, or him implying that I’m some sort of fucking Grinch because I’m selling a house I never asked to own.

“The realtor is coming today,” I grind out. “If she thinks it won’t interfere with selling the house, then I’ll grab the bin and you can tell me where you want the decorations.”

Carmine smiles slightly. “Wonderful. Oh, and while you’re down there, would you mind grabbing the Christmas tree?”

“Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a little bit? Thanksgiving isn’t for another week,” I point out.

“It’s never too early to get into the spirit. Especially when we don’t even know if we’ll be celebrating Christmas this year.”

I roll my eyes. Another pitstop on the guilt trip. Thanks, Carmine.

~*~

“Jesus, Cash, this place is one violation away from getting torn down,” Antonia says as she wiggles the bannister leading to the second floor. In the ten minutes she’s been here, she’s pointed out at least a dozen things she recommends I repair before we even list the house, and that was before we even entered the house.

“Let’s see the apartments. You said there are two on the second floor. Is there an attic too?”

“Whoa, hold on. I didn’t know you had to go inside the apartments. I’m not sure anyone is home aside from the guy in apartment 1A.”

She continues to climb the stairs, choosing to brace a hand against the wall instead of holding onto the bannister. “That’s okay, just grab the spare keys.”

“I don’t have any spare keys.”

She pauses on the sixth step, turning abruptly, her curls flying all around her face as she narrows her eyes. “What do you mean? You’re the landlord.”

I scratch the side of my face. “You say that like it means something. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, Antonia.”

“Okay, well as the landlord, you’re entitled to have a key to every apartment in case of an emergency. They’re probably somewhere in your mom’s apartment.”

“Good luck finding anything in there. When I came back from probate court the other day, I spent six hours trying to find copies of the leases.”

That went well.

Some people keep their important documents in a fireproof safe or even a file cabinet. My mother scattered shit in old pocketbooks and shoeboxes. The only thing I found was a past due water bill, some old credit card statements, and a notebook.

Speaking of which, I reach into my kutte and pull out the tiny book. I meant to ask Carmine about it earlier, but he derailed my thoughts with talk of Christmas decorations.

“What’s that?” Antonia questions.

“I’m not sure.” I flip through the notebook, landing on a page that has Carmine’s name written across the top.

Disabled veteran. Seventy-two years old. A hero. One dollar.

I turn the page.

Gretta James. Fifty-seven years old. Daughter passed away. Has custody of her granddaughter Amanda. One dollar.

I flip the page once more.

Daniela Carbone. Divorced with two boys. Works two jobs. One dollar.

Antonia peeks at the notebook from the step. “May I?”

I fork it over to her, and shrug. “Have at it.”

“Who are these people?”

“The tenants.”

“Hmm…maybe it was part of her screening process before she let them move in.”

I suppose it’s a plausible theory. It’s better than anything I can come up with.

“And the dollar thing?”

“Security deposit?”

My eyes widen. “Isn’t that usually like a month’s rent?”

She closes the notebook. “More like two months these days.” She hands me back the notebook, and I shove it back inside my kutte. “Look, Cash, I know you’re eager to sell. But even without seeing the state of the apartments, I can tell you, it’s going to take some time to get this house up to market value. It’s going to be hard to get contractors this time of year. Most are booked out with people preparing their homes for the holidays.”

“I could do the work myself.”

She gives me a skeptical look.

“Sure, and it will take you twice as long.”

Given I’m not the handiest, she’s probably right.

“Marco’s cousin owns a tattoo shop, but he does some side work as a contractor now. I can see if he can fit you in. Maybe he can help with the exterior repairs. In the meantime, declutter the basement, and get yourself some spare keys. I can come back in a couple of days to assess the apartments, and we’ll make a list of what needs to be done interior wise. But you might want to find a garage to store your bike.”

“My bike is fine in the driveway.”

“Then get yourself a cover. They’re predicting a lot of snow this winter, and judging by the state of this place, you’re going to be here well into the New Year.”

“You’re killing me, Tonia.”

I have a lot of love for Tank’s daughter, but I hate what she’s implying. Come hell or high water, I’m getting out of here. I don’t care if I take a loss on the house. Hell, I bet if I drop the price way below market value, and sell it like it is, it will sell in twenty-four hours.

Before I can express any of that to her, the front door slams behind me, rattling the panes of glass—including the new one I installed.

I spin around, ready to yell but as soon as my eyes land on the two boys, I go still. They both have a lot of their mom’s features, including her big brown eyes. I don’t know how old they are, but if I had to guess, I’d say the oldest is about ten or so, and the youngest five. Both are in need of haircuts, and while while the younger one looks at me with a curious expression on his face, the older one simply glares at me.

“Hey,” I say. “You Daniela’s boys?”

The younger one nods. “I’m Dom and this is Nick.”

Nick steps in front of his brother. “What’s it to you?”

Telling them I’m the new landlord seems a little too mature for them, so I keep it simple.

“I’m CeeCee’s son,” I explain, my gaze darting from Nick back to Dom. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Is it, though?” Nick spats. The kid didn’t only inherit his mom’s good looks, he seems to have gotten her feisty attitude too.

“Jeez,” Antonia murmurs from behind me. “I thought only girls were temperamental. If this is what I have to look forward to, I should probably start drinking now.”

Ignoring her, I clear my throat. “Not sure what you mean by that.”

“Nick doesn’t like you.”

“That so?” I glance back at the older boy.

I don’t remember much of my childhood, but I remember always being mad. Mostly because I didn’t like watching my mom struggle. It made me feel helpless. I was the man of the house, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to help her. I don’t know this kid from Adam, but I’m willing to bet every cent in my bank account he’s felt the same way. It’s reflected in his eyes—eyes that are currently drilling a hole in my head.

“Not sure why you don’t like me considering we’re only just meeting right now.”

He doesn’t respond, but his little brother seems to have no problem finding his voice.

“You’re the man that’s ruining Christmas.”

“Dom, shut up,” Nick orders. He jabs his brother in the stomach to really send the message home, and the bag he’s holding slips out of his hand.

“But that’s what you said! You said mom isn’t putting up a Christmas tree, and that Santa isn’t coming because this guy…” He juts his chubby little finger at me. “…is making us move.”

“The man ruining Christmas?” Antonia whispers. “That’s quite the reputation you’ve made for yourself, Cash.”

“I feel like I stepped into a bad Hallmark movie,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the two boys fighting over the bag on the floor. That’s when I notice it’s from Wendy’s. I forget about my role as the Grinch, and take another step toward them, my gaze wandering behind them to Carmine’s closed door.

My eyes narrow slightly as I return my focus to the boys.

“Isn’t Carmine supposed to be watching the two of you until your mom comes home?”

“He fell asleep in the chair,” Dom supplies, losing his grip on the Wendy’s bag.

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